


Like Real People Do

by greerian



Series: Waking Up with You Beside Me [1]
Category: The Book of Mormon - Parker/Stone/Lopez
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Anal Sex, Angst, Discussion of Abortion, Dubious Consent, Family Issues, Family Secrets, Fights, Hopeful Ending, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, Masturbation, Mpreg, Panic Attacks, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rehabilitation, Sexual Fantasy, Therapy, Verbal Abuse, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-06
Updated: 2016-08-06
Packaged: 2018-07-29 16:02:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7690840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greerian/pseuds/greerian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Kevin remembers filling out his compatibility survey, answering banal questions while knowing his answers determined his future. He was so </i>careful<i>, too, to answer in a way to give himself the best; Kevin was </i>not<i> going to risk his future on a wrong answer. </i></p><p>  <i>Look where that got him.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Real People Do

**Author's Note:**

> Dub Con because Arnold and Kevin's wedding night isn't fully consensual. Proceed with caution. 
> 
> All tags apply, but tags may not cover everything. This is not a light-hearted fic. It is not set in a light-hearted world. 
> 
> Part 1 of 2.
> 
> (Seriously though, I cannot honestly believe I was the first person to write something about this. Somebody had to have thought of this before me. A Pricingham arranged marriage fic is about two words away from being canon. Mission companions have to live together, guys!)

"You have got to be kidding me."

"Mr. Price."

" _Absolutely_ not."

"Mr. Price-"

"Homosexuality is an abomination and an offense unto God, and I will _not_ -"  

"Mr. Price, calm down or I will have security sedate you."

That shuts Kevin up.

The woman behind the desk sighs. It’s enough to make her massive, tortoise-shell-rimmed glasses slip.

"Sit down, Mr. Price."

He does. "I am very, very angry," he says.

"I understand, Mr. Price."

"I will not allow this to happen."

"You have no choice, Mr. Price."

"No choice?" Kevin echoes. "I don't get a choice as to whether or not I'm straight? I don't get a choice in marrying a _man_?"

"Mr. Price, we have systems in place to ensure-"

"-that I get paired with the most compatible person, _yeah,_  I'm aware, and I respect that. But I am _not_ going to be compatible with a _man._  I'm not gay!"

"And many men aren't _straight,_ Mr. Price, yet they are paired with women. Your test measured compatibility for a partnership, and sexuality is only a part of that."

Kevin falls back in his chair, resting his chin on one hand.

"This is ridiculous," he says.

"I am aware of your opinion on the issue."

"A _guy_."

"Yes, Mr. Price."

"Is there any way to get it changed? Any way to get a _girl_?"

"Exemptions are only made for partners who have been in a demonstrated relationship for four year prior to the compatibility test, Mr. Price."

And of course Kevin didn't have anyone like that. He'd kept himself pure for this, because he _believed_ in the test, like everyone he knows. He _trusted_ them, and he trusted _it,_ but now...

"So, that's it, then?" he asks. "There's no appeals or anything?"

A pause.

"There's no way out?"

The woman behind the Complaints desk of Provo's Department of Health and Human Services closes her eyes.

"There is... a catch," she says quietly, and Kevin leans forward.

"A catch?" he asks eagerly. "What's the catch?"

"The marriage can be annulled - not prevented, mind you - if the partners demonstrate incompatibility."

"How?"

"Repeat offenses of adultery, usually," she replies crisply.

Kevin's hope fades as fast as it came. He's not going to commit adultery to get out of this marriage, no matter how much he hates it.

"Is there _anything_ else?" he asks.

"Well," the woman says, straightening the papers on her desk, "another purpose of the arrangement system and compatibility tests is to ensure that each family produces three children and raises them to adulthood. If you are not with child by the end of the first year of your relationship, you may petition for a retake of the test."

"If I'm not- but I- there's nothing to prevent-"

"Nothing but abstinence."

"But..."

"Mr. Price, you asked me for a way out. I'm giving you the only ways I know."

"Yeah," he says, sitting back in his chair. "Yeah, I know. Thank you, for that."

Her face softens the smallest bit before she clears her throat. "Mr. Price, I regret to inform you that the time for our appointment has ended. If you have any further questions regarding your match, feel free to email me." She stands and offers her hand.

Kevin stands and takes it. He knows a dismissal when he sees one.

"Thank you," he mutters, then turns and walks out.

* * *

“Hey,” Arnold says. _Arnold_. His _husband_.

Kevin Price doesn’t know what to think about him. He had expectations, of course; everybody does. Maybe he isn’t offended or disgusted by Arnold because he’s more preoccupied with Arnold being _male_. Maybe he’s in shock.

Kevin doesn’t know.

“Hi,” he answers. He smiles politely, and Arnold’s chubby cheeks get chubbier as he grins in return.

Arnold is fat and not handsome. Kevin tries not to think _ugly_ \- this guy is his husband now - but it’s hard. His brown eyes, made bigger by his glasses, are wide and shallow. He looks like a little kid who got himself trapped in a middle-aged man’s body.

“You ready?” Arnold asks, sitting next to him on this sanitized, stiff bed. The room they were stuck in is white-walled and boring, but at least it’s clean. Clean, and stocked. There’s a bottle of clear, unlabeled lube on the table beside the bed, resting on a white hand towel.

Kevin has never touched lube in his life.

“Of course,” he answers. His shoulders are even, and his back is straight. His jaw is set, and he hopes he looks as confident as he usually is. He usually _is_ confident; he’s also usually not married. Kevin regrets looking down the moment he does, but he wants to see the wedding ring. In a way, he _needs_ to see his wedding ring. The metal, as cold as it was when Arnold slid it on, has warmed to match his skin and now he can’t feel it. That band is his vow to love and be faithful to his husband, wrapped around the fourth finger of his left hand. It makes this real in a way Kevin doesn’t know if he loves or hates.

He could imagine a million reasons why he and Arnold are in this room. He could imagine Arnold is his friend, or Arnold is his lover, or Arnold is handsome or thin or a _girl._ But he can’t imagine the shining silver band as anything but what it is: a promise. For better or for worse.

Kevin lifts his chin again and meets Arnold’s gaze.

“Let’s do it,” he says.

Arnold doesn’t even try to hide the way his eyes light up.

“Okay!” he answers. His sweaty, stubby fingers start pulling at his tie, and Kevin has to look away.

“...right,” Kevin says. He clears his throat, and he smiles. All it is is sex. Just- not just. But everyone does this; it’s part of marriage. It’s natural. It’s normal. More than that, it’s supposed to be wonderful. Kevin can make it more than wonderful. He can make it _incredible_.

“Uh,” Arnold says, and Kevin jumps. “I think you’re supposed to relax. It hurts more if you’re all…” Arnold hitches his shoulders up to his ears and smiles a little.

“I am _not_ \- I _am_ relaxed!” Kevin protests. To hide how far he drops his shoulders, he puffs out his chest and lifts his chin even higher. “I’m not worried about this at all. I don’t know why you would be, either. It’s not like this is _strange_.”

“Oh, I’m not,” Arnold replies. His little, tentative smile grows into a toothy grin. “I’m _excited_. Do you know how hot you are? It’s like I hit the _jackpot_.”

Kevin grits his teeth. “That’s… flattering,” he says. “Let’s just get this over with, all right?”

“...oh.” It takes a second, but Arnold starts tugging at his tie again. “Yeah, okay, let’s do that.”

Kevin has folded his tie on the side table and is almost out of his shirt by the time he notices his husband can’t get the knot undone.

“What the heck- here,” he sighs, reaching out to do it himself. The tension makes him fumble, though, and there is a long moment where he knows Arnold is watching him and he is not watching back. There is heat between them, between Kevin’s fingers and Arnold’s throat; he feels it along with the way Arnold swallows, making his adam’s apple bob.

“ _There_ ,” he announces, too loudly, and turns around to rest Arnold’s tie next to his. “Can you at least take your shirt off by yourself?”

“Yeah,” Arnold replies, offended.

“Then do it,” Kevin says, turning back around. “I thought you wanted this.”

“Well, _yeah_.”

Kevin gives him a look; Arnold jumps to undo the row of white buttons climbing up his shirt.

Kevin rolls out his shoulders once his own shirt and undershirt are off. It’s to get rid of the tension, thick and strong, in the cords of his shoulderblades and his back and his neck, but it’s also to stall. Arnold is staring, and Kevin…

“I’ve never done this before,” he says firmly.

“Neither have I,” Arnold admits. His cheeks go red under Kevin’s gaze. “That’s, uh… not bad, right?”

“No.” _Maybe_. “But- it would be great if you didn’t watch everything I do. Can you do that for me?”

Arnold’s head whips around to face the wall. “I would do anything for you. I’m your _husband_.”

Kevin’s hands come to a stop at his belt. After a long, long moment, he says “All right. Let’s… let’s do it.”

The sound of his belt clinking, and his pants hitting the floor, and Arnold’s breathing, are all too loud. Kevin hurries to get everything off and lay down on the bed.

“Come on,” he says, looking just to the left of Arnold’s forehead. “You gotta do this, too.”

“I know,” Arnold says quickly, and fumbles out of his clothes. He has a red line across his stomach where his belt was; without it, his stomach is more obvious and more…

He’s covered in dark hair from head to foot, including- _there_. But _there_ is overshadowed by the bulge of his gut, and Kevin can’t even see anything.

He swallows down something he tells himself fiercely isn’t revulsion.

“Come on,” he says again. Arnold isn’t moving, isn’t doing anything, and Kevin doesn’t want to wait. “The lube is right there. You- you _do_ know what to do with it, right?”

“Of course!” Arnold responds. He sounds so darn _proud_ of himself. “You use it to slick up your hands and make everything, uh, _go._ Smoother. Yeah.”

“Well,” Kevin says. “Go ahead.”

“Okay.” A beat, then Kevin hears Arnold’s feet slapping against the concrete floor on the way around the bed. He focuses on the off-white ceiling tiles as Arnold’s arm appears in his periphery, grabbing the bottle. He swallows as the lid snaps open, and a sick squelch declares that Arnold’s hands are full of the stuff.

Kevin isn’t hard at all.

It doesn’t really matter, though. He doesn’t need to be, only _Arnold_ does, and he said he was excited. It shouldn’t be a problem, then. Except that when Arnold climbs up onto the bed, awkwardly shuffling on his knees, his hands don’t move to where they need to go. They wrap around Kevin’s cock and start to tug, albeit gently.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Kevin snaps. His body jerks up, and he catches a glimpse of Arnold’s surprised face before he can force himself to lay back down. “That’s not the point of this.”

“What?” Arnold asks. “I, uh… It’s kind of the point. Like, you’re supposed to enjoy it, you know?”

“No, I’m not,” Kevin says. He sighs heavily, and focuses on the vaguely-shaped stain directly above him. “Just- just do what you have to. You don’t have to do… that.”

“So…” Arnold releases him. A moment later, something brushes against his- against him, _down there_. Kevin goes stiff as a board. “...here?”

“Yes, there,” Kevin replies. “There, obviously. Can you hurry up?”

“I kinda thought we could-”

“We have the rest of our married lives for you to take your time,” Kevin says, hardly regretting the lie. “This time, could you _not_ take forever?”

“Well, I…” Arnold sighs, too. “Okay. Um. Sure.”

Kevin closes his eyes. “Thank you.”

That something brushes against him again, more firmly this time. The third time, Kevin makes himself focus on letting it happen, letting Arnold’s fingers go… or, touch there. One step at a time; they’re not going in _yet_.

But they are touching all around, pressing against the tender skin of a place he never thought anybody else would touch. When Kevin imagined his first time, it was never like this. He wouldn’t be lying down. He wouldn’t be touched; he would be _touching_. Some faceless girl would squirm under his fingers as they delved into the heat of her. Some men wouldn’t do that much - they believed any sort of penetration would taint a woman until the actual act, but Kevin thought differently. He knew exactly how it would go; how she would be red-faced and so beautiful, how she would tell him she loved him as they came together. How she would kiss him. How she would-

Arnold’s first finger breaches him, and Kevin doesn’t hold back his cry in time.

“Kevin?”

“I’m fine,” he says. “Just- it feels…” _Wrong._

“I’ll go slower,” Arnold promises, and pushes in again.

 _Don’t tense, don’t tense, don’t tense,_ Kevin tells himself but he does anyway. He wants Arnold’s finger _out_ , he wants his hands _away,_ he doesn’t want to be here-

But once it’s over, it’s over. He won’t have to do it again. And they won’t let him out until he does.

He redirects the urge to his fingers; they twist into the sheets so tightly they ache. But his hole opens to Arnold, and Arnold stretches him further with two fingers.

The third burns, but Kevin bites down on air and doesn’t let a single sound escape.

Three fingers, and Arnold moves them, dragging and thrusting and moving them around. The feeling reminds Kevin of not being able to scratch an itch; clumsy contortions that never do anything to help.

“Come on,” he says a third time. “Come on, Arnold.”

“You sure?” Arnold asks. “You’re still kind of…”

“ _Yes_ ,” Kevin replies as Arnold’s fingers push away from each other, and towards his insides, stretching too far. “Yes, please, just-”

“Okay,” Arnold murmurs. His breath is hot on Kevin’s cheek as he leans over, and mashes their lips together.

Kevin wasn’t expecting that. He doesn’t have enough air in his lungs for it, and what he does have he loses in surprise. His eyes open wide; Arnold’s are closed. Kevin has to shove his husband away to catch his breath.

“What-” he says.

Arnold smiles. “I really like you,” he admits. He sounds bashful, like it’s some sort of confession, and- and Kevin doesn’t want to hear it.

“Please,” he says. “Can you…”

Arnold nods, and Kevin lets his head tip back. Lets his eyes trace the jagged edges of that stain. Lets his body go slack, even as he hears the click and squelch and a moan from Arnold.

Arnold’s hand comes to rest above his left shoulder. Kevin clenches at the bed sheets.

“Okay,” he says. “Are you ready?”

“I’m ready,” Kevin answers, too quickly.

Arnold’s other hand grips Kevin’s hip, and spreads his legs. Arnold pushes in.

Arnold makes some sort of noise. Kevin feels suddenly, sharply: this is it. This is his life. This is his virginity. This is it, and now it’s gone.

The stain on the ceiling goes blurry and indistinct. Kevin bites down on his tongue.

The bed starts to creak; Arnold starts to move.

“A- _amazing,_ ” he whispers. “Gosh, Kevin…” He almost looks cross-eyed, behind those stupid, ugly glasses of his. They’re slipping down his nose, and Kevin wants to- he wants to tear them off and throw them to the other side of the room. He wants to snap the sides off and crush the lenses. He wants…

Letting go of the sheets like he’s surrendering a lifeline, Kevin pushes Arnold’s glasses back into place.

“There,” he says. He sounds like he’s crying.

“Kevin-” Arnold says, and it’s not a moan. “Kevin, what- what’s wrong? Why are you crying?”

“I’m not crying,” Kevin says. “I’m… I’m not, I’m fine, just… keep going.” Because Arnold is stopping, his hips aren’t pressing up against the flesh of Kevin’s thighs, he’s pulling out and that’s the _opposite_ of what they need to do.

Arnold brings a finger up to Kevin’s eyes and brushes at it, and, oh. It comes away wet.

Arnold leans in and kisses him again, his lips clumsy and spit-soaked. “It’s okay, Kevin,” he says. “I’m sorry if it hurts. I’ll do better next time.” Again, and again, he’s kissing Kevin, until Kevin can’t hold back anymore. The cold, harshness of his jaw goes slack, and tears slip out of the corners of his eyes. Arnold keeps kissing him, licking at him, getting them both sloppy and disgusting, and when he parts Kevin’s lips and gets his tongue in, he moves his hips forward again, and-

Something, a spark, lights up, somewhere deep in Kevin’s chest. Something that makes him think, for a second, this could be okay.

Something that makes him kiss back.

Arnold has to pull away once he’s fully sheathed in Kevin again. He’s breathing too hard, almost gasping as he ruts into Kevin’s body, but Kevin doesn’t mind. Maybe the spark was something breaking, but he thinks it wasn’t. It’s the last thing he thinks, because the tears keep coming and Arnold’s thrusts start to really hurt and then everything is hot and wet and “ _Can I touch now?_ ” and “ _Yes, please_ ,” and when Kevin starts thinking again, Arnold is standing by the bed and holding out the towel from the night stand.

“Uh, not that part,” he says, when Kevin lifts it to his eyes. “I kinda wiped my hands on that. The other side’s clean, though.”

“I didn’t cry,” Kevin says. He wipes his eyes and ignores how that burns, then slowly sits up, leaning against the wall where a headboard should be.

“Okay,” Arnold says. “If that’s… um. Yeah. You didn’t.”

Kevin sees his legs shaking.

“Sit down,” he orders, quietly. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”

Arnold grins at him and jumps up onto the bed. It squeaks under his weight.

Kevin just wants to sleep.

* * *

 

Alcohol becomes Kevin's best friend. First, because it makes him feel great, and second, because Arnold won't touch him while he's drunk. Kevin will admit he’s lucky that way; James Church from his ward ended up in the hospital when his wife got drunk for the first time around him.

But Arnold just looks at him before walking into their bedroom and locking the door. He used to let Kevin have the bed. He would always sleep on the uncomfortable living room couch, until he asked one night when Kevin would stop.

Kevin doesn’t remember what he told him, but Arnold has kept him locked out of the bedroom since.

It’s not like Kevin gets blackout drunk every night. He still has a job, and he still has to go to it even though he gets a friendly email every month that reminds him he can take off for pregnancy leave whenever. He only drinks to take the edge off, anyway, and sometimes, Arnold’s face has a sharper edge than usual, that’s all.

Kevin knew from the start this marriage would be nothing like his parents’, and nothing like what he imagined. He knew he didn’t want it. He knew it was morally wrong and against God’s will.

That doesn’t make him feel any better about his husband’s expression slowly changing from hope to worry to desperation to nothing at all when he comes home to see Kevin.

Kevin hates it; he hates the whole mess. He hates feeling like someone took an ice cream scoop to his guts the night they married and never put anything there to fill the hole. He hates waking up on the couch by himself, head aching and body shivering because he wrapped himself like a koala around the blanket. He hates that Arnold had hope for them. He hates that he had hope for himself. And he hates that a year is so long.

So Kevin drinks.

“What is this, Jack Daniels?” Arnold asks. He picks up the bottle with a fist around the neck; his whole face wrinkles when he catches a whiff.

“Yeah, so?” Kevin replies. “Give it- hand it over.”

“How much’ve you had?”

“Tonight?” Kevin sits back and taps a faux-thoughtful finger against his chin. “Enough to not care. Give it here.”

He waves his hand in Arnold’s general, tilting direction, but Arnold doesn’t surrender the bottle.

“Kevin, this has gotta stop, buddy,” he says instead. “We’re supposed to be having a baby.”

Kevin throws back his head and laughs. “Do you think I _want_ that?”

Arnold laughs, too, ducking his head. “That’s not very funny, Kevin.”

“Do you think I’m joking?”

To his credit, Arnold isn’t dumb. The way his laugh fades tells Kevin so; Arnold doesn’t pretend to be surprised.

“Kevin…”

“Are you gonna hand that back?” Kevin interrupts.

“No,” Arnold answers. He doesn’t say anything else as he screws the lid back on and shoves the bottle all the way under the sink.

Kevin does not want to have the conversation he senses coming.

“What the heck?” he demands, bracing his hands on the table. He stands, or tries to; a whirlwind moment and then his head hurts. He’s on the floor, splayed out, and Arnold is just- looking at him.

“Arnold,” he starts.

Arnold shakes his head. Kevin squints.

“Are you… crying?” he asks.

“No,” Arnold mutters as he wipes his eyes. “Kevin, I’m putting my foot down.”

Kevin scoffs. “I don’t wanna hear it,” he says. “I’m just… just gonna sleep right here if you try to lecture me. Try it, and I’ll show you.”

“Dang it, Kevin-”

Kevin snores and lets his head fall to the linoleum kitchen floor with a thud.

“That’ll hurt in the morning,” he murmurs, grinning, before faking another snore.

Arnold doesn’t say anything. For a second, Kevin thinks he left.

And then there’s a hand on his arm, yanking him off the floor.

“What the-” Kevin has to stop himself before his nausea makes him lose his lunch on the linoleum. The room has moved to tilting to full-on carnival ride spinning, and while he’s concentrating on not falling over and not throwing up Arnold drags him into the bedroom.

“You,” he says, “are sleeping in here tonight.” He shoves Kevin back onto the bed, and Kevin lets himself fall. He’s not sure he can keep his feet under him anymore. “And _we_ -” Arnold aggressively strips off his shoes. Kevin almost giggles. Aggressively taking off shoes isn’t something he thought anybody could _do_. “-are talking in the morning.”

“Whatever,” Kevin mumbles. His tongue has gone heavy in his mouth, and… he’s exhausted, all of a sudden. Plus, he picked out this bed. So it’s comfy. The couch… not so much. And he’s slept there for so long.

Arnold has to drag his legs up onto the bed; Kevin is past the point of moving for tonight. Once he does, though, Kevin takes a deep breath. This feels good. Bed feels good. And if Arnold has to be there, then… whatever. Kevin can handle that for one night. Heck, he let Arnold-

It doesn’t matter that he’s _drunk._  Arnold won’t touch him. He’s fine. He’s going to be fine.

Kevin is going to be just fine.

“Goodnight,” Arnold grumbles, shoving Kevin out of the middle of the bed.

Kevin bites his lip so he can’t answer.

* * *

 

At six months, Arnold makes Kevin go to a doctor. The thing is, nobody told Kevin _not_ having a kid would go on his medical record. Permanently.

“I’m obligated to tell you, this will greatly reduce your chances of being matched in the future, Mr. Price,” the doctor says. “The system the government has in place is to maximize reproduction and create stable families. Infertility in an otherwise healthy young man is no small problem.”

“I’m not infertile,” Kevin protests. His hands clench in the paper gown hanging from his shoulders. “This is a _choice._ ”

The doctor goes still. “A choice.”

“Well, yeah,” Kevin says. He doesn’t see he should shut up until it’s too late. “I don’t want to have a kid, and I _definitely_ don’t want a kid with- with my _husband_. You’ve got to see why; he’s…”

Kevin doesn’t have the words to describe Arnold Cunningham.

“Mr. Price.” The doctor shifts in their chair. “I’m a mandatory reporter for the governmental matching system. I’m required to ask you now: is your husband abusing you?”

“What? _No_!”

“What is your reason for not wanting children with him?”

“He’s… have you even _seen_ him?” Kevin asks. “Wait. A mandatory reporter?”

The doctor nods. “Is it personal differences, then?”

“...yeah, I guess so,” Kevin replies. He can’t imagine anyone wanting to have Arnold’s kid, but, then again, maybe fat and overbearing is somebody’s type. Maybe there’s some lucky guy out there who’ll actually _want_ to be where Kevin is. Maybe this won’t be so bad for somebody else. “What are you going to say?”

The doctor doesn’t hesitate. “I am going to refer the two of you to marriage counseling, effective immediately. And given the circumstances, this referral will be mandatory.”

* * *

 

Kevin gets so drunk that night he throws up all over the bed. He doesn’t apologize, but he can’t look Arnold in the eye the next morning, either.

The day after that is their first session with a marriage counselor.

* * *

 

“He drinks all the time,” Arnold says.

“And how do you feel about that?” Dr. Lisa Maguire asks. Lisa, she said they could call her, as if they’re friends or something.

“It sucks.”

She hums thoughtfully. “That’s not a feeling,” she says. “That’s a judgement, and we’re going to try and stay away from those. How do you feel about Kevin drinking, Arnold?”

“I… it hurts,” Arnold admits. He fidgets in his seat like a kid kept inside at recess.

Kevin stares out the opposite window.

“That’s good to admit,” Lisa encourages. “And, Kevin? How does that make _you_ feel?”

Kevin opens his mouth.

“Remember, ‘I’ statements,” she adds.

Kevin is done with this. “ _I_ don’t care,” he says. “ _I_ ’m not going to stop. _I_ ’m going to do whatever I want because _I_ never wanted this. _I_ don’t want kids, and _I_ think it’s idiotic that we’re here in the first place.”

The freaking doctor has the nerve to look _happy_.

“Good, good,” she says. “This is a breakthrough. I know you’re angry, Kevin, but this honesty is the key to communication with-”

“With _him_?” he snaps, standing and pointing at Arnold. “At the husband I never wanted? Yeah, because _communication_ is going to make it better.”

“Kevin-” Arnold tries. Kevin whirls on him.

“Shut up!” he cries. “Just- I didn’t want you. I _don’t_ want you. I don’t want your kid. I don’t want to live with you. Do you know how much of my life you made hell when I got stuck with you?”

Nobody says anything.

“Do you? Because I honestly don’t think you _do_. My family gave up on me because some bull crap government survey said I’d be most compatible with a man. I can’t go to church anymore, because that’s where _they_ go. I never wanted a husband; I’m not gay. And to get _you_?” Kevin almost laughs. “Even if I wanted to be married to a guy, the last person I would want is _you_.

“I never wanted to have kids. Not carry them myself. Who wants that? Kids that somebody else carried, fine. I’d be _fine_ with that. But the government just sweeps in, like they know- like they actually _know_ me, they take away _everything_ I have, they pair me with some _loser_ who actually thinks this is _cool_ , and then they say I’m responsible for carrying our child?

“Why, in any possible way of thinking about this, would I want that with- with him?”

Lisa’s hands are white-knuckled around her clipboard.

“Why is anybody even surprised I don’t want to get pregnant? _Screw_ that. Of course I’m going to freaking drink. I don’t want his hands on my body _ever_ again. And if I manage this for five more months, then I’m free. This miserable excuse of a marriage will stop ruining everyone’s lives, and I bet-” Kevin makes sure to meet Arnold’s eyes. “-you’ll even _thank_ me.”

He’s breathing too hard. Arnold’s eyes are too wide. The constant click of the clock on the wall is too loud. Kevin straightens up and walks out.

* * *

 

He walks for about five blocks in the blinding 90 degree light before his phone rings, telling him that he’s been admitted to an intensive program designed for ‘physically incompatible’ couples. The truck that pulls up twenty minutes later has the word ‘rehabilitation’ on the side. They tell him to get in quietly or someone will make him.

Kevin goes without protest.

* * *

 

“What do you want?” his nurse slash case-worker slash warden asks, once he’s all settled in his room. Apparently he’s going to live here for the foreseeable future, but they’ll let him go to his job. How generous of them.

But Kevin knows why he’s here. He doesn’t deserve to be; it’s because the system is unfair. There’s nothing wrong with him.

“To get away from my husband,” he answers.

She nods.

“What, aren’t you going to write that down?” he taunts.

“Not my job,” she says.

“What _is_ your job?”

“To change your mind.”

* * *

 

They bring in Arnold’s matching file the next day. It’s the file used to find a compatible match, and Kevin refuses to touch it.

“That’s fine,” she says. “The longer you wait, the longer you stay here. No skin off my nose.”

“What’s the point?” Kevin asks. “I’ve already lived with the guy. I don’t care about him.”

“You see him in a negative light,” the nurse says. “The file is neutral.”

“Don’t you want me to adore him?” Kevin asks. “Fall head over heels for-”

“Neutral is better than whatever’s about to come out of your mouth.”

* * *

 

The intake appointment is a complicated mess. There are more people in Kevin’s place than he thought. The woman in charge of it is frazzled and overworked; her phone rings three times before she finally leaves it off the hook.

“Has your spouse ever hurt you?” she asks.

“Why does everyone think that? No.”

“Have _you_ ever laid hands on your spouse in anger?” she asks.

“No!” Kevin protests. “Why- Just because I hate him doesn’t mean I’d do _that_!” His hands grip at the arms of his flimsy, plastic chair. “Is that- is that why people end up here? Because they’re _abusive_?”

“Have you ever neglected your husband or ignored him during time together?”

“...well, yes.”

“Have you ever neglected or refused your marital duties?”

Kevin frowns, confused.

“Have you ever refused intercourse, Mr. Price.”

“Oh.” Kevin cheeks burn as he says “I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

“So, yes,” she sighs. “And how do you view your spouse? On a scale of one to ten: physical attractiveness?”

Kevin scoffs. “One. No, zero.”

“Maturity and practicality?”

Kevin laughs.

“Fun-loving nature and spontaneity?”

Kevin shrugs. “I don’t know. A three?”

“Morality?”

“...four.”

“Respectfulness of you, your personal space and belongings?”

“T- three.”

“Emotional availability and attentiveness?”

Kevin shifts in his seat. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“How does he treat you?” she says. She hesitates, as if Kevin should already know. “Is he kind to you? Would you say he treats you well?”

“I don’t know,” Kevin replies. “He… he’s not… _awful_ , I guess.” He crosses his legs, then uncrosses them. “Five.”

* * *

 

“What do you want?”

Kevin is on his way to work; he gives his nurse a sunny smile and says “To get away from my husband.”

“When are you going to have a new answer?”

He barely stops in the doorway. “When are you going to get a new question?”

* * *

 

There’s a group room with fellow prisoners (Kevin saw a drama show once; he knows this is what jail looks like) hanging out. Kevin wanders in there after work on the third day out of sheer boredom. There’s nothing to do in his room. The group room is about the same, but it’s got a TV on the wall playing some pseudo-science bull crap about the moon landing and some people to talk to. Sure, some of them are abusive and awful people, but some of them have to be like Kevin, right? At least a few of the listless group clustered in padded chairs around the room have to be here because they were forced. Because they were desperate.

“Hello,” Kevin says to a innocuous-looking blonde as he takes the chair next to her.

“Oh,” she says. “Hey. What’s your name?”

“Kevin Price,” he answers, plastering on a bright smile. “And you?”

“August Sanchez,” she replies, smiling a little herself.

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, August,” Kevin says. He holds out his right hand for her to shake, and then he sees the forest green cast wrapped around most of her dark-skinned arm. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t-”

She shrugs. “Doesn’t matter.” There’s a wry grin on her lips as she settles back into her chair. “Why’re you here, Kevin? You don’t look as fragile as the rest of us.”

“Fragile?” Kevin reassesses the room, but nobody’s looking fragile, or any friendlier, than when he walked in. “What do you mean?”

August lifts her injured arm. “Fragile,” she repeats meaningfully. “Unless you’re the type to do this.”

“Wh- did someone _do_ that to you?”

“My husband,” she answers. “So, are you? If so, I’m going to go ahead and leave.”

“No! I’m _not_! I wouldn’t- I don’t care how much I dislike somebody, I wouldn’t ever hurt them. Why does everybody think I _would_?”

August narrows her eyes. “If you’re in here,” she murmurs, “it’s because you’re one or the other. Somebody’s hurting you, or you’re hurting them.”

“But I’m _not_!” he protests. “I’m serious. I would never hurt- not even my husband.”

“What’s so bad about yours?” she asks. Her cast rests on the arm of her chair, and Kevin forgets for a second just what was so bad about Arnold.

“...well, you and I just _met,_ ” he says instead. “I don’t- that’s kind of a personal topic, I think.”

“Oh, because you’re not dying to hear how _this_ happened?”

Kevin wishes he could honestly tell her ‘no.’

“It’s fine,” she says. “I’ve told the story enough since I got here. It numbs it, you know?”

“Sure,” Kevin replies.

August doesn’t follow up with anything; Kevin wonders dryly if maybe she got a little too numb. The moon landing show has just about dragged him in when he sees her mouth open again out of the corner of his eye.

“He just got angry,” she mutters. “I said I liked a guy with spirit, and I guess… I ended up with him. He was angry a lot. And it was okay. Angry, I can deal with. A slap or two, fine. Not… I know that’s not okay, but every relationship has an adjustment time. I thought it was like growing pains. He had a girlfriend before me, but-” Her lips twist bitterly. Her next words are so quiet Kevin has to lean in to catch them. “It was the baby that was the final straw.”

“You’re-” Kevin starts. “Oh, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

But she nods. “Yeah, I’m seven weeks along. It’s not a lot, but… I knew. You wouldn’t get it, but it’s just… there’s a feeling. I knew almost the day of. And I couldn’t let him hurt me after that.”

“Wait just a second, how do you know I wouldn’t get it?” Kevin asks. People are doing a _lot_ of assuming about him, and he’s getting real tired of it.

“It’s a carrier thing,” she answers. She sounds less bitter now, and more hopeful. The lack of worry lines in her forehead makes her look even younger than Kevin. “You just know. And I knew the baby was the most important thing in my life.”

Kevin doesn’t hold back his snort.

“Hey, what’s your problem?” she asks, leaning forward. The lines are back, but curving down between her eyebrows. “You got something against people who carry?”

“No! Geez, am I not allowed to think that’s dramatic?”

“It’s not dramatic. I never wanted kids. Never. But now, I would kill for this baby.”

Kevin doesn’t answer.

“Look, you want to know why I’m in here?” August doesn’t wait for Kevin’s reply. “It’s because I pulled a knife on that motherfucker. He broke my arm, and I wasn’t going to let him do any worse.”

“ _Why?_ ” Kevin asks.

“Why’d he break my arm? I told him I was pregnant. And I would rather die than let that monster near my kid.”

Kevin excuses himself to go to the restroom and doesn’t come back.

* * *

 

Day thirteen. Kevin is bored, but not tired. He is done with work for the day, and there’s two hours left until dinner. He hasn’t gone to the group room since he met August; he’s not planning on going again. He’s alone.

And- well. Even Kevin has needs.

Methodically, he unbuttons his shirt and pants, folding them and setting them on the chair for visitors next to his bed. He hasn’t had a visitor yet. His undershirt follows, along with his socks; he toed off his shoes at the door. Kevin is left in a pair of grey boxer-briefs as he stands on the thin carpet of his assigned room. There’s faint light slipping between the slats of the vertical blinds, but nobody can see in.

Nobody is going to see.

He stretches out on the unremarkable blue coverlet he’s slept under for days now. They switched it out from the maroon one five days back. It’s not uncomfortable, but Kevin’s not sure he wants his bare butt on it while he-

Well. Kevin isn’t really feeling it, but he doesn’t have anything else to do. Besides, it’s not like it’s going to hurt.

He shoves his right hand past the elastic waist and gets a firm grip on himself. He stops; he reaches for the unscented lotion on the bedside table. He tries again.

Nothing.

The back of Kevin’s head hits the pillow. This is… frustrating. He can feel it; there’s a faint tug of lust, pulling at that place below his stomach. But faint isn’t enough to make him want it, not in this strange place. He needs to imagine something, or at least a different room. Just for long enough to take the edge off and give him something to do for the next few hours. That’s all this is. There’s no pressure.

It’s not like he hasn’t done this in weeks.

Kevin takes a deep breath, letting it fill his lungs until the fullness hurts. What can he imagine.

It used to be his wife; her hair color would change a lot, and she never really had a face, but her moans and the way she moved, those always stayed. That was nice.  
Maybe… maybe a redhead this time?

Kevin closes his eyes. Nothing comes to mind; no redheaded girl with a demure smile, no busty redhead with impossible hips, not even Wendy of Wendy’s. Nobody.

“Honestly…”

His frustration isn’t easing, and now Kevin just feels stupid. His hand is still wrapped around his limp cock, and there’s nothing-

There is someone, though. Kevin has purposely kept his thoughts as pure as possible and never thought about actual _people,_  but… he’s got someone he can think about. His features wrinkle in disgust, but since they’re married, it can’t be bad. And he really needs something concrete to focus on.

So, why not think about Arnold? That’s got to be harmless.

Tentatively, Kevin calls his husband to mind. His dopey smile and wild hair fill Kevin’s head immediately and vividly, so vividly that it’s almost a surprise. Arnold isn’t jerk off material, but at least Kevin won’t feel guilty at the end. And that’s what this idiotic establishment wants him to do, right? Maybe if he tells them he did this they’ll let him out early.

Without meaning to, he imagines how Arnold will react, if that happens. Kevin knows what his face looks like when it lights up; he knows how Arnold’s cheeks flush and how he bounces, sometimes, on his tip toes. It’s childish, but it’s kind of cute. If you’re into that.

He knows what Arnold sounds like during sex, too. That helps turn the enthusiastic picture into something dirty; it isn’t too far of a stretch to put Arnold on the mattress, with Kevin above. There isn’t too much Kevin has to change for him to imagine drawing sounds out of Arnold with his hands, instead of from Arnold rutting into him like an animal. Without too much trouble, Kevin can make it… sexy.

“What am I doing,” Kevin mutters, but he can’t argue with results; his cock firms up in his hand.

The Arnold he pictures isn’t as off-putting as the real one. Kevin’s mind helpfully smoothes his skin, sharpens his jaw and cheekbones, and levels out his lumps and rolls. The body he pictures isn’t feminine; he doesn’t picture Arnold as a woman or without a dick. But it’s not unattractive, with a soundtrack of moans playing on repeat and the remembered image of Arnold’s blushing face.

Kevin’s palm wraps around his cock and starts pumping.

He knows he’s got better control than Arnold. He could make Arnold melt, if he wanted. Maybe Kevin wouldn’t get much out of it, but he could take Arnold apart with his hands alone. He could say really filthy things, too, as he teased Arnold with little touches, not just between his legs. Kevin’s own fingers come up to brush across the ridge of his collarbone; he smirks, envisioning himself doing that to Arnold. Making him cry out at something so innocent.

But of course Arnold would fall apart that quickly. He likes Kevin. He’s attracted to Kevin. If Kevin even acknowledged him-

He’d blush. He would trip over himself, and stumble over his words. He… he might even kiss Kevin, if Kevin apologized.

Kevin shakes his head. This isn’t about Arnold. This is about Kevin, and jacking off. That’s _it._

Arnold would probably beg for the chance to suck Kevin off. He’d get on his knees, all eager and doting. He’d say “I can take care of you,” and-

 _No_. Kevin would fist a hand in that coarse, rough black hair and he would pull until Arnold cried. Kevin would throw his head back so he wouldn’t have to look, and he would imagine some… some girl, another faceless girl, and…

Arnold would be good. He’d be so good, because it’s _Kevin_ and Arnold would want to do his best for Kevin. Arnold is his husband, and he’d… he would…

He would be gentle with Kevin. He was gentle the first time, even when Kevin didn’t want him to be. He wouldn’t take all of Kevin down his throat, gulping and choking. He’d be sweet; he would take his time. His hands would brush down Kevin’s sides, sticking and catching where they’re both starting to sweat. He wouldn’t make Kevin repay the favor, but he’d love if Kevin would. He would swallow when Kevin came, then lean over him and whisper how much he loves Kevin, how much he wants Kevin, how hot Kevin is and how he can’t believe Kevin is _his_.

“Yours,” Kevin whispers. “Yes, yours, yours, gosh, _yours_ -”

Kevin spills into his hand with the ghost of Arnold’s voice in his ear.

It’s gross. It’s hot, and sticky, and he never did take off his underwear.

And Kevin Price came to the idea of his husband. He came, promising himself to the memory of Arnold. _I’m yours_ , he thought. That’s what got him off.

Kevin feels disgusting.

* * *

 

Day fourteen. The nurse comes in and asks “What do you want?”

Kevin’s been wanting to crawl out of his skin since yesterday afternoon. “I want to get out of here.”

She expertly lifts one eyebrow. “Oh yeah?” she says. “How bad?”

* * *

 

Kevin opens Arnold’s file that day.

It’s not interesting. There’s his height (5’ 6”), his weight (189.5 lbs), his eye and hair color (dark brown and black). There’s a picture of his face that looks like a mugshot except that he’s smiling. There’s a few lines devoted to his family: his father and mother’s names (Kevin remembers meeting them at the wedding) and an empty box for siblings.

There’s half a page of addresses where Arnold has lived; it’s more than Kevin expected. Madison, Wisconsin; Sioux City, Iowa; Boise, Idaho; Fort Lupton, Colorado; Salt Lake City, Utah. Kevin traces his fingertip down the list. The Salt Lake City address is the newest one, and it’s only a few years old. No wonder Arnold had so few people to invite to the wedding.

Kevin shrugs a shoulder and moves on.

The next section is health information; Kevin wrinkles his nose at the brusque descriptions and skips ahead until he sees Genetic Risk Factors. The list is… short. The diseases and disorders Arnold could likely pass onto his offspring is limited to childhood obesity, GAD, and Asperger’s. Kevin is surprised.

“They must not count ugliness as a genetic deficit,” he mutters, turning the page. And this- this is the compatibility section. Kevin remembers filling out the survey for this, answering banal questions while knowing his answers determined his future. He was _so_ careful, too, to answer in a way to give himself the _best_ ; Kevin was not going to risk his future on a wrong answer. Look where those answers got him, though. He’s locked up in rehab with no end in sight.

“Awesome job, Kevin.”

There’s several paragraphs detailing all of Arnold’s responses. Kevin flips through them quickly, carelessly. Why should he care?

He does stop, though, at question seventy-one: ‘Do you consider yourself a forgiving person?’

Arnold’s answer is a three out of five. But there’s a note beneath, written by Dana Brothers, licensed psychologist.

_Arnold Cunningham has a low perception of his good traits (see question 102 and notes). This explains his self-rating here. During our interview, however, I asked how he would react to several situations in which an individual caused him pain or embarrassment. I also asked him to provide examples of negative treatment by friends and family (he had plenty; see notes on question 25) and how he reacted. In every case, Arnold demonstrated a strong capacity for total forgiveness, including understanding, empathy, freely giving absolution, and dropping blame and judgement after the incident. As forgiveness and patience are important components of an arranged relationship, particularly those with beginning difficulties, I recommend Arnold be paired with a medium- or high-risk compatible match._

Kevin stares for a while. A medium- or high-risk match? Is he… a risky match?

No, he couldn’t be. He’s a smart, handsome, upright young man. That’s the lowest risk there is! It’s a _fluke_ Kevin ended up in here. He’s not high-risk. And Arnold can’t _possibly_ be as great at this note makes him out to be. It’s hardly six sentences.

Kevin moves on.

At the end is another quick summary of Arnold: age, hair and eye color, race, and then: sexuality. It’s marked ‘unknown.’

There’s a note in the margins, hand-scrawled in. _Arnold displays no preference sexually_ , it reads. _Does_ _not_ _indicate lack of attraction; attraction is evenly distributed and strong towards all genders. Little to no homophobia. Best paired with a male carrier_.

Then, ‘Carrier status: N/A.’

* * *

 

“Can I get a copy of my matching file?” Kevin asks. It’s day seventeen. The nurses’s gaze flicks to the bedside table where Arnold’s no longer sits.

“What happened to your husband’s?”

Kevin smirks. “I threw it out.”

It’s under his mattress.

“The longer you fight this, the longer you’re stuck here,” she says.

Kevin shrugs and smiles through the restlessness skittering under his skin.

* * *

 

Kevin’s file gets slipped under his door while he’s at work. He almost plants his muddy shoe on it, and finds himself pulling a fancy jump-shuffle-slide maneuver just in time.

It’s been raining all day; it’s like the sky is crying into the handkerchief of the heavens.

Kevin doesn’t like it.

He brightens up when he sees the file, though.

“Finally,” he declares, scooping it up. Finally- what? He’ll see if he and Arnold _actually_ compatible. Yeah, that’s _what_. Then Kevin will _know:_ he’ll know whether he should keep fighting this stupid system and stay here, or if he should give up and…

 _Take Arnold back_ , Kevin tells himself. His mind spins a different story, though: Arnold smiling, opening his arms, wrapping Kevin in a hug and-

Kevin shakes his head.

“This is _it,_ ” he says. He grins. This is going to decide everything.  

Kevin flips open the folder.

The first page is different than Arnold’s. A red stamp, smudged and half out of its designated box, reads ‘Caution: High Risk.’

 _KEVIN PRICE_ , it says. _multiple infractions against matching system, including placing complaints, lashing out at matching system workers, verbal abuse of spouse, refusing to reproduce/engage in intercourse, etc._

_Family History of Risk: Yes_

_Mental Illness/Disorder/Maladjustment: Yes_

_Genetic Risk Factors: High_

_Monitor closely. Disclosure to match required (as per federal code 29 U.S. 1862)._

_Status: In Treatment. Showing little to no improvement._

Kevin can’t breathe.

There’s a postscript, too: _KEVIN PRICE is a male carrier, fertile status. Given risk status, from conception, he_ _must_ _be watched closely by primary care physician, OB/GYN, psychologist, husband, loved ones, etc. to ensure no abortion attempts are made._

Kevin slaps a hand over his mouth and throws the file as hard as he can.

It smacks against the wall. It falls. Papers fly everywhere.

Kevin Price is high risk. Kevin Price is mentally ill. Kevin Price- They think he would try to abort his child.

The hand over his mouth isn’t enough; Kevin sprints to the bathroom.

He loses his meagre lunch, then breakfast, then the remnants of last night’s dinner, to the small, stained toilet, until he’s retching and empty. A drop of bile smacks the vomit-spattered bowl. Kevin gags and turns to the sink.

He’s reaching for the faucet, desperate for some cold water or- or _something_ , when he meets the eyes of his reflection.

He’s crying.

As soon as his hands are clean, Kevin shoves the heels of his palms into his sockets. He pushes, and pushes, until colors flash from the darkness; he keeps pushing.

“Gosh,” he gasps. “Gosh, I- I didn’t… I w-wouldn’t _do_ that, I…” Another sob stops his words in their tracks.

Kevin can’t do anything but bite down and hold his breath until the storm passes.

It takes a while to stop the shaking. When Kevin can see his pale, wrecked reflection in the mirror clearly, he straightens. Inhale; his lungs try to shudder on the exhale. Gosh- he looks awful.

Kevin splashes more cold water on his eyes and wipes spit from his chin, but it doesn’t help as much as he hoped.

Work is over for today, though. No one is going to bother him tonight.

Kevin walks back into the bedroom. He crosses to where his paperwork is strewn across the floor like snow on brown winter grass, and starts picking up the pages, one by one. They’re numbered, thank goodness. It’s not as bad as he thought it might be to order them again.

His Genetic Risk Factor list is half a page long. His questionnaire is almost almost ten. Then, Kevin finds another page Arnold’s didn’t have: Family History.

* * *

 

When Kevin was nine years old, his dad made him memorize three phone numbers - the Price family home phone, his mom’s cell, and his dad’s. The first two numbers have changed (Kevin never cared before because he had his own phone then and he just put them on speed dial), but his dad’s never did. That’s the number he punches in at the rehab center’s phone, in the hallway off the group room. His fingers fly over the square metal buttons, and he doesn’t wonder whether his dad will even answer until he brings the phone to his ear.

One dial tone; his dad would always pick up when he saw it was his kids calling.

Two dial tones; Kevin isn’t calling from his cell phone. His dad won’t have a reason to answer the call.

Three dial tones; he told Kevin to never talk to him again. He said he couldn’t help Kevin out if he continued his life in congress with a man.

“Hello; Richard Price. Who’s this?”

Kevin breathes in, sharp and harsh. “Hey, Dad,” he says. “It’s your son Kevin. You’ll never guess where I am right now: couple’s rehab. Isn’t that something? It’s a nice place, with real friendly people and all, but I’ve found out some _really_ interesting things. How come you never told me you were a carrier?”

Dead silence.

“Kevin, now isn’t a good time.”

“When is a good time, Dad?” Kevin yells. “When I’m out of here? I don’t know if I’ll ever get out, and most of that is thanks to _you_! You were the one who told me for _years_ that male carriers where abominations unto God; literally the scum of the earth. You were the one who _kicked_ me _out_ and _disowned_ me when I was paired with a man, _against my will_. Dad… do you actually believe that? Did you tell yourself that from before you met-

“And that’s another _fun_ little tidbit I found: Mom was your second match. What happened to the first one?”

A sigh sounds, harsh and grating in Kevin’s ear.

“Son…”

“Unless you’re in church right now-” It’s 6:37 on a Thursday. “-I want answers.”

Kevin hears his dad’s hesitation; he can picture the way his dad’s broad, suit-clad shoulders must be falling. The way his lips pinch. The way his brow folds down over his deep-set eyes. It’s- Kevin tells himself it’s infuriating.

“Look, Kevin,” he says, “you know what the Bible says, because your mother and I taught you. We were taught the same thing, by our mothers and fathers; what you know isn’t any harsher than it’s ever been. The truth is, according to the Word of God, that men are not supposed to bear children.”

“But they _can_ , Dad!” Kevin interjects. “ _I_ can.” _You can, too, and you never-_

“I could go out and kill someone, Kevin; that doesn’t make it right.”

“So that’s it,” Kevin says. “You… it’s wrong, and that’s the end of that?”

“I believe in the Word, Kevin,” his dad replies. He sounds sadder than Kevin remembers from when he’s made that declaration before. Kevin grits his teeth. “I believe that the Bible and the Sacred Works are God’s message to his followers, and it is my responsibility to follow them, to adhere to his commands, no matter what. I will not argue with my Heavenly Father.”

His words hang heavy; leaves on a dying tree.

“...what about your match?” Kevin asks weakly. “It was a man, wasn’t it?”

“It doesn’t matter,” his dad replies. “I proved we were incompatible, and they gave me your mother.”

Kevin doesn’t need to ask how he did it. Six months in prison, six months parole, a $5000 fine, and a Class 5 felony for 'menacing' on Richard Price’s criminal record were all on the Family History page.

“How did you and Mom…” he starts. He’s floundering, treading water in a pool fifty feet deep, and he’s never been a good swimmer. “I thought male carriers couldn’t...”

“There are treatments,” his dad answers.

“Did you-” Kevin swallows. “Did you carry me?”

His dad doesn’t answer.

“And you used other- other men, didn’t you? Artificial…” Kevin can’t bring himself to say ‘insemination.’

“Yes,” his dad snaps. “Your mother carried your siblings, and they came from anonymous donors.”

“Are they even my siblings, Dad?” Kevin asks. “They’re not your kids, and I… I’m not Mom’s.” He can’t be. His mom is a carrier, and his dad…

“That’s not what makes family, Kevin,” his dad says. “Your mother and I raised you. You are _ours,_ both of ours. And Jack, Debbie, Ben, Sean, they’re your brothers and sister.”

“No,” Kevin answers. “They’re not.”

“Kevin-”

“They _aren’t_!” he shouts. “Because you disowned me! You told me you never wanted to hear from me again, and I- I’m your only _son_ , Dad. You carried me!”

The group room at Kevin’s back has gone silent as a cemetery. He rests his arm on top of the phone booth and his forehead on his arm.

“Kevin, I told you-”

“Yeah,” Kevin says. “Yeah, Dad. I know.” He believes in the Word of God, and that-

Kevin hangs up the phone.

* * *

 

It’s still raining when Kevin heads back to his room. The clouds are still dark and low when he climbs into bed and tugs the covers up to his ears. It’s barely 7:00 PM.

Kevin cries with the sky.

* * *

 

The next day dawns grey and cold. Kevin only brought polos, tees, and shorts; he shivers as his nurse sweeps in. Leslie. Her name is Leslie. And she’s wearing the periwinkle scrubs she wore on his first day.

“What do you want?” she asks, straightening his sheets with clinical precision.

“I want to talk to him.”

“Him?” She doesn’t skip a beat.

“You know who I mean,” Kevin answers miserably. He hunches his shoulders; her efficient hands slow.

“I need you to say it,” she tells him. It’s almost gentle, for her.

“...my husband,” Kevin mutters. Instead of meeting her eyes, he stares out the window. All he sees is grey. “I want to talk to my husband.”

“Okay,” Leslie answers. Kevin’s skin burns with humiliation. “I’ll see what I can do.”

* * *

 

They stick him in a chair in this room, like a prisoner interrogation room. There’s no one-way mirror-window, but there is a camera in the right-hand corner, between the ceiling and walls. It’s aimed right at Kevin; he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to talk with it there.

But the electronic lock clicks. The door opens. And it doesn’t matter.

There is Arnold, clutching at the lanyard of his guest pass.

He’s not as ugly as Kevin remembers. He doesn’t look like Kevin’s fantasies, either, though. He… he looks ordinary.

A nurse closes the door behind him.

“Hey,” Kevin says.

Even after everything, Arnold’s face lights up. “Hi!” He waves; Kevin waves back.

“How’ve you been?” Kevin asks.

Arnold shrugs. It’s like he’s afraid to talk; Kevin doesn’t know why he expected anything different.

“How about you?” Arnold questions. He ducks his head. “This looks like a nice place.”

“Yeah, it’s…” Kevin taps his fingers against the top of the room’s lone table. “How’s the weather out there?” He winces; what a stupid, banal question.

Arnold looks disproportionately horrified. “Do they not, like, let you out?” he asks, glancing back at the door. “I mean, I saw _windows_ , I’m sure I did.”

“Oh, no, not-” Kevin bites a frustrated sigh. “I’ve got a window in my room. It’s not- and I’ve been going to work. You didn’t… wait, you didn’t…”

Arnold never tried to check on him at work. Kevin thought it was because Arnold wasn’t allowed to, or Arnold was avoiding him. But- Arnold never checked.

“They didn’t tell me anything,” Arnold admits. He shuffles his feet, a little kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “I didn’t even know where _this_ place was until they called today.”

“...oh.” Kevin sits back in his chair. “Um, you can sit down,” he invites, waving towards the metal folding chair on the other side of the table.

“Yeah, okay.” Arnold takes a seat as awkwardly as Kevin offered it.

“So you didn’t know I was in here?”

Arnold shakes his head, and he doesn’t lift his gaze from a deep scratch gouged into the tabletop. Kevin wonders what could have done that kind of damage.

“Did you know I’m high risk?”

Arnold stills; he doesn’t answer. Kevin decides to wait him out. He’s got all the time in the world, in here.

“I mean, they told me,” Arnold blurts out eventually. His own words are his cue to start fidgeting again. His pudgy arms twine with each other as he mutters “I knew, technically. But it’s not- I didn’t _care_ or anything.”

 _Did you know the whole story?_ Kevin thinks. _Will you care when you learn what I could do? What my father did?_ “Why didn’t y-”

But a shiver cuts him off. His teeth clack together, hard, and Kevin clamps down on his jaw before Arnold can-

“Oh geez, are you cold?” Arnold asks. He leans forward, and for the first time he looks over Kevin’s uncovered arms and legs. Kevin jerks one shoulder in a shrug. He’s just about to make some throwaway comment about how he didn’t get much time to pack when Arnold strips out of his weathered sweatshirt and stands to hand it over.

“Here,” he says, after a second where Kevin just stares. Arnold shakes it, as if it’s not right in Kevin’s face. “‘Cause you’ve just got that polo on.”

“What about you?” Kevin asks. He meets Arnold’s eyes. Arnold is only wearing jeans and a t-shirt of his own, after all, and Kevin… he recognizes that shirt. He folded that shirt more times than he can remember, and he knows it’s paper thin. He also knows that it’s Arnold comfort shirt; “It feels like a hug,” he said sheepishly when Kevin asked why he was seeing it in every darn load of laundry. Kevin reaches out, and sees too late his hands are quivering.

“Hey, you okay?” Arnold asks. He frowns; Kevin looks away.

“I’m fine,” Kevin mutters, but he waited too long. Arnold ducks around the table and crosses the invisible line keeping him out of Kevin’s side of the room. Kevin almost expects a siren, flashing lights, a guard or nurse bursting in- but nothing happens. Arnold just gets closer, with that pucker in his brow. Kevin leans back, away, in his chair.

“I said I’m fine, Arnold,” he repeats, and he scrambles for the sweatshirt, abandoned on the table. “Look, I- I’ll put on the jacket; I’m _fine_.”

And then Arnold crouches before him.

“What’re you doing?” Kevin asks.

Arnold doesn’t get up. “Are they treating you right here?” he murmurs. “You’re- you’re only here ‘cause of… _us_ , nothing else, right?”

“I’m not on drugs, Arnold!” Kevin protests. Roughly, he shoves his arms through the sleeves of Arnold’s hoodie and ignores Arnold’s mumbled apology. The fabric is still warm from the heat of Arnold. It’s not making things any easier.

“Nah, I just…” Arnold squirms. “You’re okay, right?”

Kevin pauses, the zipper tugged halfway up his chest. “I…”

Kevin spent fourteen of the past twenty-four hours in bed. Kevin has enough mental health warnings that Arnold was told before they even married; before even _Kevin_ knew. Kevin lost his entire family yesterday. Again. Kevin has no idea who his other dad is, and he probably never will.

“No,” he whispers. “I… don’t think I am.”

“Oh,” Arnold says. Kevin blinks, and when he meets his husband’s eyes again he can hardly pick them out of the blur of Arnold’s face. He sniffles.

“Um… hey, Kev?”

Kevin hunches further into the folds of Arnold’s sweatshirt.

“What?” he croaks.

“Thanks for saying so,” Arnold tells him, sweetly, innocently.

Kevin’s hands come up to cover his face when he sobs.

The worst part, he thinks, isn’t that Arnold is here seeing this. That’s probably progress; give yourself a pat on the back, Kevin. It’s not even when Arnold’s hand lands on his knee and he starts rubbing, and Kevin shudders. The worst part is the undercurrent of humiliation that comes with knowing this is all on camera. There’s a nurse or guard watching him fall apart.

This should be _private_. This is Kevin at his lowest, and _nobody_ deserves to be here, except the guy who decided to take him anyway.

“Can we go?” Kevin whispers. “I don’t want to be here anymore.”

Arnold’s gaze flicks to the door. “I dunno, Kevin…”

“I’m not-” Kevin swipes at his eyes carelessly. “I’m not going to do anything. I won’t… hurt you again. I’m sorry I said those things, Arnold. I never… I didn’t mean them. Okay? Not… not even then.”

In Kevin’s periphery, Arnold’s jaw drops. It’s like a nutcracker at Christmas.

Kevin keeps his eyes on his hands. They’re cold. He imagines blocks of ice around them instead of looking up.

“Kevin…” Gosh, Arnold sounds so _awe-struck_. He sounds like Kevin just offered him the greatest gift in the world, when it was only a crappy apology. Kevin… he doesn’t deserve to hear his name uttered like that. “You… you wanna come home with me?”

Now, Kevin looks up. Arnold’s eyes are wide with the sweetest disbelief; their dark brown is lit up with something indescribable. Kevin thinks it could be hope.

Even after all this time.

Kevin closes his eyes. A breath, painful and chilling, fills his lungs. Arnold’s palm is still hot on the plane of his knee.

It’s going to take him a long time to truly call their apartment ‘home.’ Kevin isn’t sure they can make this marriage work. But- nobody has ever cared about him for doing so little before. For… an apology.

“Yeah,” he answers. His fingertips brush through the hollows under his eyes and come away wet. “Let’s go home.”


End file.
